


Incognito Tab

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasizing, Imagined Bondage, Kinky, Masturbation, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Crush, kinkish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Dean thinks that if he only fantasises about you along with other ‘forbidden things’ he’ll be able to forget it ever happened.





	Incognito Tab

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @spngenrebingo.   
> Square filled: Free space (I don’t even know what genre this is!)

This evening, Dean tidies his already tidy room.  He dusts and polishes and organises and sorts, chewing his lips every time a short task is done.  He stands and looks around and wonders what else needs doing, and looks at the door, not reflecting on why, when he thinks of the weapons in the store clean even though it’s 11pm, why he doesn’t really want to leave.

If he were to leave, he ought to be knocking on your door and congratulating you– Thanking? Noting? Remarking. See, this is why– on a whole year of Life With The Winchesters.  But it’s really late.  He should’ve said something earlier and he didn’t.  For no reason he can explain.

So he walks around a bit more, rubs his hands on his thighs and eventually readies himself for bed.

He does notice, though, how he hesitates to get into bed.  It takes two dumb goes to pull the covers back, as though there’s a snake in there or something, and he scoffs at himself.  “What’s that all about,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s still good.” He snuggles under, arms across his chest, and patiently blinks up at the ceiling until his mind wanders into sleep….

Dean gets out of bed.  In his drawers is a pair of jocks he never wears, ones he never bothers to throw out because they’re stuffed in the back and they never bother him, but they’re back there because he bought them years ago, in a rush, and they’re a size too small.  He works off his boxers and pulls them on, adjusting the edges around his legs, lifting each knee and tugging his kit side to side, to keep the hair from being pulled.

Dean gets back into bed.  He ducks his fingers under to organise his dick again, lets it lie pointing towards his hip, and settles in once more.

It’s not comfortable.  But it’s not…. It’s not quite….   

He reaches under himself to work the pants into a wedgie.  It takes a bit of wriggling because the elastic wants to pull outwards, but if he jerks it, tugs harder, it tightens around his balls some.  It feels just a bit rude.  Unkind enough.

He finds, if he crosses his legs and lifts his knees, it’s more uncomfortable still.

He imagines you doing it somehow.  There’s no context to it, no narrative of how it all got to that point, just the image of him letting you insist, wordless and watching, that you bend his knees to test his gonads, and the blood forces itself into his cock.

He’d make little noises with his throat, plead at you with his eyebrows, but you’d know to not stop.  Your passive gaze would become curious, then lustful and then, when you were satisfied, you’d let his knees go and massage his balls, whispering  _Good Boy_ into the shadow of his jaw.  And he’d wait to see what you would do to him next.

“Hmm!” Dean hums, hard and surprised, opening his eyes.  His arms are still beneath him, four fingers tightly wrapped around the bunched jocks, the others gripping his wrist, and now he’s clammy all over.  “Oh, shit.”  Seconds later the pants are worked off and on the floor.  “What am I  _doing_?” He knows he wants to jack off about it, but there’s no woman he can get into his mind who can push aside the image of you.  You making him take things.  You dialling up the pleasure.

You demanding he have you how you want to be had.

Him surprising you with it.

Somehow Dean manages to focus on your body, more than your face, because then he can pretend that it belongs to someone else and still look at you sensibly tomorrow.  (It doesn’t last, and it never does, because it’s not just your body that he wants.)  Nevertheless, he tries to imagine someone like you sitting on his legs, imagines being pinned down while his nuts are pulled or pressed or something, and feeling strong, oiled, merciless hands wringing pleasure out of his cock. Elbows wide and lip bitten, this girl would smile like you do and twist the slippery shine up to the head, over and over until the skin becomes merely smooth and the heat radiates up to his chest.  

He whispers, “Please, slower! Ah!  _Please_!” and imagines a woman who knows him like you do, this woman ignoring him, pouting darkly, pushing tight rings of pressure down the shaft, down-down-down-down without reprieve, until the veins bulge in his neck and he’s learned to shut up.  Then she’d get more oil and twist again, wring it all out again, and again, until he’s moaning each breath and sweating into the pillow.

There was something he saw once, stared at the gif for a solid 5 seconds before scrolling on, and he reflexively thought  _Poor bastard_ at the time.  But he has to feel it, just to be sure it’s truly as cruel as it looked.  So he jerks his arms out from under his waist and grabs himself, arranging shaky, tingling fingers so the head barely pokes out of his fist, then rubs his palm over the tip, crushes it in flat circles that smear the slick everywhere.

It is  _deliciously_  mean, makes him frown and burst “Goh!” and suck on his teeth. He would ask you to ease up, a string of started curse words at the least, but this is an ache he can inflict upon himself. (And tomorrow, when he crosses his legs in that stupid tweed-and-blue get up and forgets to shift his junk, his mind comes straight back to it, putting a tangy flavour in his mouth and threatening his dignity.  He misses everything in that interview because his brain blabs “She needs to put you in a cock cage,” and goes completely offline.  He has no memory of taking a set of perfectly accurate notes.)

Dean keeps his legs flat,  _tight_ , and persists, grinding sweet friction, making loose pinches and shallow pokes, and circling again, rushed and needy, curling up until he adds more rope to his imagination, then he gives one nipple a messy, ragged tug, and jerks himself off, his junk singing with fatness, feeling his lips prickle and the creases pinch at his eyes, until it rushes bursting and messy.  You’d be proud of him, threading your fingers between his, feeding him water and kissing everything until the hot sting recedes and the goo goes cold.

Clean up is habitual while his mind plays him promising to do the same to you, if you want it, however you want it, all the different ways you’d answer.

Soon he’s snug again, rolling over and pretending all that slapped skin feels just fine.  He plans which part of Baby he’ll work on next, and falls asleep to normal, non-kinky thoughts about you, because fantasising about you is  _understandable_ , but surely forbidden.  He’s just gonna scroll on by.


End file.
